


A mild addiction

by eyeslikerain



Category: Maurice (1987), Maurice - E. M. Forster
Genre: Clive discovers instagram, M/M, Maurice 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 17:26:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14430531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyeslikerain/pseuds/eyeslikerain
Summary: I didn‘t want to know what Maurice did with this Scudder boy in bed, but I couldn‘t help imagining the two together.





	A mild addiction

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the delightful 
> 
> [**A Happier Year (Near About)**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5114666) by [**Kimbeen**](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kimbeen)  
>  Chapters: 23/?  
> and  
> [ **A Sense of Stability**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14250324) by [**keyboardclicks**](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keyboardclicks)  
>   
> 
> Hi Kimbeen - hope you don't mind that we cluster like ticks around your fic. It's just too much fun...  
> And hi, keyboardclicks, forgive me for taking your idea further!

„The East End branch of the London Rotary Club“ - what bullshit. I had spoken often enough at the various clubs to know there existed no such section. And likely never would, the East End being what it was. The whole set-up was a queer, tasteless hoax. And Maurice in the middle of it, for heaven‘s sake! And Scudder next to him, beaming, looking admittedly not bad in fairly decent clothes. Well, that had to be expected, but it stung anyway. The happy couple. Who would have believed it was more than a six-week-fling? Seemed to be, from all I had seen on instagram lately.

A few weeks ago, I didn‘t have any idea what instagram was at all. Sure, as a politician, I had to stay on top of things, also deplorable developments like these so-called social media. Basically, I knew what it was. I hadn‘t expected it would offer so much information of the most private nature, to anyone who cared to look. I hadn‘t expected also it would offer the most splendid oppourtunity to spy on someone one isn‘t talking to anymore. To be connected of sorts without bothering to have to deal with this person.

Anne, being a few years younger than me, has had a lifestyle blog for cultural and fashion events in and around London for some years. Instagram was only one of her social media platforms. She connected with her so-called „friends“ with a seriousness other people invested in their professional life. It was rare to see her without her smartphone, no matter if it was early in the day or the last thing before she plugged it in before going to bed. One day in late winter, I heard her gasp and cry my name. I looked up concerned from my armchair near the fire to her, resting on the sofa with her feet up to be more comfortable with the ever growing bulge that one day would be our first child. I lowered my paper and she said:

„Look here, Maurice!“, and held her phone to me.

I surpressed the urge to leap up and fly to her – hearing the once so familiar name made me burn inwardly – and leaned forward, seemingly only mildy interested.

„On Lavender Molesworth – Trumpington‘s wedding. But not as a guest, see!“

I finally went over to her and took her phone. So tiny, those pictures. And those crudely abbreviated texts always made me cringe. What did culture come to. A picture of Maurice and Alec, damn him, framing a girl in eccentric clothes on an obviously very bad hair-day, who looked strangely familiar. Each of them had bunches of white and soft pink lilies in their arms, being almost covered by the hugeness of them. „Flower - fairy Sally and her charming helpers“, read the caption.

„What the…? Anne, what does this mean?“

„Scroll on. You can see them decorating the church.“

„What? Maurice is decorating a church?“

„Seems to be so. Just go on.“

And, true, there were several pre-wedding shots of an empty church, the three of them carrying bunches of flowers, boxes with ready tiny bouquets and decorations for the pews, and finally some shots showing them fastening the flowers and getting everything in place. Maurice and Alec wore jeans and black t-shirts. Despite the casual attire, I couldn‘t deny Maurice looked still very attractive.

„Anne, what is this about?“

„I have no idea. Maurice seems to be helping out a friend. Or do you think he went into the florist business?“

I snorted.

„And this is Scudder besides him, isn‘t it?“

„Who? Yes, indeed. I didn‘t notice. Now that you say it...“

„Hand me back my phone, will you? I think this light-pink is adorable, I need to text Camilla. She was looking for decoration for the baptism of little Holly, and I think this would be perfect. Maybe she can hire this Sally-person? Need to get her full name and check out her website...“ And Anne‘s thumbs got terribly busy over her phone.

 

When she got up soon to one of the increasingly frequent trips to the bathroom she complained about, I sneaked her phone and quickly got the name of the site she had been on. That‘s how I found the instagram account of florist Sally. And a whole new world opened up for me. Not about flowers, mind you, but – I finally found a connection to Maurice again, even if it was artificial and one-sided. I had wondered for months where he had ended up. Even thought he might have gone to South America with Scudder, lazing around in hammocks and enjoying exotic cocktails. I was incredibly relieved to see him at all, and to see him healthy and obviously happy. And it calmed me also to know him in London. I didn‘t expect he would consent to meet me ever again, but – he had been my soulmate, after all. It was hard losing him in the abrupt way I had last September.

After I discovered Sally‘s account and saw several pictures of Maurice (and Scudder) moving around in the background, lugging small potted, decorated trees or heaps of cut flowers, I was addicted and checked it daily. Sometimes, twice a day. They seemed to help her with heavier tasks like the ones I described. There were regular busy days, usually posted on weekends or Friday nights, of the trio decorating wedding and similar venues. But also the occasional images of leisure spent together: blurry shots of a laughing crowd in a pub, Maurice and Scudder from behind, leaning in too close, looking out onto a river in evening sunshine, Scudder with a pint of something in one hand, or – utter shamelessness – the three of them dancing together. This shot had me wonder briefly if the whole thing was an immoral ménage à trois – but I knew Maurice too well. He wouldn‘t like it. Scudder would, all right, from what Anne had told me. What puzzled me and made me leap temporarily to this conclusion was the fact that always the same, obviously small apartment was shown when Sally posted pictures of her work in progress. They seemed to work together on centerpieces and bouquets that spread out in dozens over the floor. Maybe even lived together? Sometimes, I just recognized a hand or an arm, but Maurice seemed to be involved very often. Didn‘t he have any other job? Or was he just being altruistic, lending a hand to a friend with one of those optimistic start-ups that went down the drain after one year? On the other hand, when I looked at the names of her patrons – these were rather posh society weddings she did. And practically on every weekend.

The true nature of their aquaintance stayed dim for me. But I had found a tiny connection to Maurice again, a last straw to know what he was doing. My habit of checking the account became frightful – I had heard about the addictive touch of these things and experienced it on myself now. It annoyed me also because this Sally person posted very frequently, several times a day. For reasons that eloped me, she started every day with a picure of her mug of tea. Different mugs, different light. Sometimes on the windowsill, sometimes outside, in her lap or on a table. Very often with a different kind of flower – the day‘s object of work, I guessed – besides it. I cannot grasp why anyone would photograph their tea mugs. Let alone why anyone else would look at them. That wasted a terrible amount of my time. And of course, she posted lots of photos of flowers, often adding what they meant in the language of flowers and why she choose them for a certain event. Now that was a bit more understandeable, even if it was not the reason I visited her site.

Having found a peculiar way of connection to my former love was exciting and disturbing. In the first days, my heart beat faster whenever I opened Sally‘s account. I did so furtively and clandestine, sometimes in the bathroom even, to hide my doings from Anne. Whenever she unexpectedly walked in on me with my phone in my hand, I almost blushed. One time, I tried to hide the site so clumsily, was so taken by surprise, that my phone slipped out of my hands and she joked: „Why the hurry? Are you hiding something from me? An affair?“ From then on, I became more cautious. I decided to limit my views of the superfluous site to my London evenings. Usually, for old time‘s sake, for Wednesdays, Maurice‘s and my evening when we lived together. I saved it for the late evening, when I knew I wouldn‘t be disturbed anymore, and slowly savoured every new picture of Maurice I might come across. Often, there were none for whole weeks and I was bombed with flowers and tea mugs. But I didn‘t mind returning to older photos. 

I knew the habit wasn‘t good for me, brought me tantalizing and sensual dreams of my former love. But I couldn‘t stop it. Anne‘s and my marital relation had been shortlived and ceased as soon as she felt unwell because of her pregnancy. But I had needs. Not regarding her, that became clear every time Maurice‘s sight made my knees weak. I dreamed of him at night, and I phantasised about him before falling asleep in what had once been our apartment. This hadn‘t happened for at least a year now, and I found it rather disturbing how deep my longing still was. I questioned my outwardly happy marriage ever more, especially when my subconscious raised it‘s head like with these damned dreams.

How they beamed on this photo, holding each other with their arms around their shoulders. And it was a real, happy smile, not a staged one. I felt jealous. Truly and completely consciously jealous. And I knew there would be unwelcome subconscious reactions once I drifted off to sleep. I didn‘t want to know what Maurice did with this Scudder boy in bed, but I couldn‘t help imagining the two together. It could have been me… Maurice. My beautiful Maurice. Look at that smile. And his kind eyes. I miss having those eyes around me.

And those two lads, kneeling in front with banderoles of „Marriage for all“ over their shoulders – well, why wasn‘t I surprised. Rebellic, outspoken, always causing a turmoil, always dying for their beliefs. How exhausting. Besides, if Maurice and I were still together, would we have a serious clash of interests? Would he still fight and campaign for same-sex marriage with a conservative politician at his side? Maybe he would be more discreet for my sake. But, wait, I couldn‘t be together with a man if I… dash it. What bullshit. Why does it have to be so complicated.


End file.
